The Test
by Stamper Comma Leland
Summary: Neal shudders at the trauma of the memory, sticks his finger to his teeth and feels to make sure they are still gapless and straight. He needs to smile for Peter to make sure the man knows, because Neal can't handle another rejection. [Or a sequel to Of Tummies and Such. Contains spanking, so please skip if that's not your thing]


**A/N:** In which Neal has major daddy issues...haha. Wrote this tonight while it barely snowed outside. Hope it's not too boring, or redundant. **It contains the spanking of an adult**, so if you're not into that, I would skip this particular story.

* * *

… _I kinda like to think of you as my kid_.

The words were spoken like a confession, quiet, without eye contact, and with an almost tangible reluctance. That's how Neal knows that Peter meant it, that it wasn't just some lie concocted to justify a punishment that is simultaneously mild and cruel, but a very secretive truth that Peter has held onto for a long time. It's a beautiful knowledge that creates a clenching in Neal's chest, a bubbling in his belly and a skip to his step.

Neal feels light, but not empty. Like that missing piece that was his paternity was somehow filled, maybe not with the original, but with something new, something better, something unique in its own right and once there, gravity ceased to exist for that heavy thing he's been carrying on his shoulders for the past two decades and some change. Neal still may be situated in an anklet that labels him a bad egg, but it's not in his blood.

If it were in his blood, his bones, his very being, Peter wouldn't think of him that way. Peter is too much of a stickler for the system, for justice, for all things good and right and innocent to waste his time with a bad, dark thing with no light and no hope.

…isn't he?

Neal gnaws at his lower lip, then brings his thumb to his mouth and goes at the nail. When he was a little boy, he used to suck his thumb. It was a quick and lazy comfort, reserved for the days when his mom wasn't quite right, when he ached for normalcy and his old name, when his skin was too soft for "It's never going to be the same, Neal. Get used to it." A gap evolved in his teeth around first grade, and in the second, he experienced his first spurning by a girl with strawberry blonde pigtails and massive green eyes.

Neal shudders at the trauma of the memory, sticks his finger to his teeth and feels to make sure they are still straight and together. He needs to smile for Peter to make sure the man knows, because Neal can't handle another rejection.

Neal doesn't feel so light anymore, because this feeling is going to vanish, anyway. Peter's not going to want a kid – albeit an adult kid – with itchy fingers and an amoral mind that perpetually goads them on. He's just not. Peter doesn't believe in impulses. Peter believes in right and wrong, and the individual's ability to maintain control of his own actions.

Neal feels like a slowly deflating balloon with this realization that its not going to last. Peter's managed up until now, maybe, but one day he'll tire of it, of Neal's lack of ability to obey, to abide by the law like a normal civilian, much less like the surrogate son of a higher up FBI agent.

These thoughts are dismal things. Luckily, Neal has never been one to wallow.

Thus, the day after that most surprising and humiliating event in the men's restroom, Neal finds himself walking into Peter's office and standing at the man's toes with open arms, practically falling into a seemingly impromptu hug which has Peter awkward and rigid for several moments before he returns it - and with gusto, for Neal feels Peter's warm breath on his neck, and a large hand on his back, rubbing.

"You okay, kid?" Peter says.

And Neal says, "M'okay," even though it's a lie. Someone who is okay doesn't do a thing like this. The hugging, or this other thing that Neal is currently doing.

He pulls away after a bit, feeling warm and flushed from the embrace. He looks at the ground, unable to look into Peter's eyes, hopes it comes off more shy than guilty, even though he guesses both would do.

"What's wrong?" Peter asks, and his hand is on Neal's shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

To which Neal says, "Nothing, Peter, I just thought that a spontaneous hug was appropriate." He blushes deliberately. He is a shy, affectionate boy right now. And nothing else.

"Yeah?" Peter asks.

And Neal says, "Yes."

He feels the man's eyes on him, probing, feels the weight of the truth in the air and in his pocket and he's just about to turn around and walk out before this gets any more unbearable when Peter holds out his hand and says, "Wallet, please."

Neal looks up with startled eyes. He raises a brow and fishes his wallet out of his pocket, cocks his head like an intrigued puppy as he places it in Peter's upturned palm.

Peter takes one glance at it and says, "I meant _my_ wallet, Caffrey. Hand it over."

Caffrey.

Neal hands it over, feeling his innards dripping to his feet, because who was he kidding? He's not think-of-you-as-my-kid material, especially not to someone like Peter. Peter is virtuous and upstanding, and Neal is…Neal.

His neck droops like a dead weight, his eyes on the floor. That gap might as well be back in his teeth, because no smile is going to save him from this repudiation now. Turn back on the gravity because his shoulders are heavy again with the weight of daddy issues he never asked for and definitely never wanted.

The searing smack to his bottom catches him by surprise and he yelps, tries to dance away but Peter collects him by the arm, serves him one more and lets him go.

"_Peter_," Neal hisses, burying his face in a hand and peeking out between his fingers. His face is on fire. The walls are made of glass. Hugs are one thing for the White Collar unit to bear witness to, spankings are another entirely.

Peter doesn't look impressed. "Stealing lands you back in prison. That's one of the two ends you're not allowed to meet. I told you the consequences for that yesterday, Neal. Now why in the hell are you testing me?"

Neal shifts from foot to foot, barely resisting the urge to rub his stinging backside. "M'_not_," he says with such vehemence that it might well be true. If it weren't so obviously a lie, that is.

"You _are_," Peter replies. "And if you lie to me one more time, you're going to sit at your desk for the rest of the day. Then I'm going to take you home, put you over my knee, and give you a _real _spanking."

"Nooo," Neal says, his blue eyes unwillingly filling with tears. "Lying isn't one of the-"

"Stop," Peter says sternly, pointing a finger into Neal's face. "Lying can go either way, and you damn well know it. You lie, I'm not going to know how to protect you from prison or worse, so you lie to me, you get the worst punishments, you got that?"

Neal kicks at the floor, feeling all his will escaping him. He grumbles, "Yes, Peter."

Peter points to a chair. "Sit down and tell me what the hell is going on with you."

Neal sits. Peter stands at the front of his desk, leaning casually back against it, his arms crossed as he regards the conman. Neal doesn't look at him, just asks, "Why?"

"Because I said so."

"No, I meant why do you get to do this to me?"

Neal hears the exhalation of breath as Peter sighs. "I told you that already."

Neal squirms in the chair, peers up at Peter through long lashes. "I want you to tell me again."

The inhalation, this time. And then a pause before Peter breathes it out through his nose. "Because you're my catch, Neal. You're my CI. You're my responsibility."

Heavy disappointment. It must show on Neal's face because Peter leans over then, and there's one hand on each of Neal's knees. "You're mine," he says softly. "All of those things, and I like to think more. Just like I told you yesterday. That doesn't change just because you're a little klepto who steals my wallet to test some harebrained theory out. You're mine. My kid."

The hug this time is rushed, but real as Neal collides with Peter's leaning frame, and promptly releases.

"Thanks," he says, and smiles to show his teeth, which are white, straight, and gapless.

"You're welcome," Peter grunts, and gruffly ruffles Neal's hair.

Neal preens. "I'm quite the catch, aren't I?"

"Neal…"

Despite Peter's groan, the gravity's off again, and that weight is gone. Neal is a good man who does bad things sometimes, a young man with happiness clenching in his chest, bubbling in his belly, and adding a skip to his step.


End file.
